Rain poured from the sky like tears from the old city, mercilessly washing away the last colors of autumn from Pokrovsky Boulevard. This corner of Moscow, once lively and full of life, now seemed gloomy and abandoned. In the shadow of the majestic buildings, with pre-revolutionary architecture, there was a history that few knew about.
An official named Somov, known for his love of luxury and, as they whispered behind his back, embezzlement, was returning home after another day spent in his office. He was walking along the boulevard, thinking about his business, when his gaze accidentally fell on an ancient monument. On it was engraved the inscription: "Alexander Pushkin."
Somov felt a strange uneasiness. The image of the great poet seemed to come alive before his eyes, and it seemed to him that Pushkin was looking at him reproachfully. The official's head began to ring with the lines he had read in his youth, but now they seemed filled with some kind of dark prophecy.
The weather grew even more stormy, the wind grew stronger, as if trying to shake the dust of time off the age-old stones. Somov quickened his pace, but something elusive was pursuing him. He remembered how in his youth he had dreamed of traveling to Rio de Janeiro, of distant lands and new horizons. But instead he found himself a prisoner of his own ambitions, in a world where every step was a burden.
Suddenly he noticed a strange figure appear on the boulevard. It looked like a person from the past, in a pre-revolutionary suit, with a cane and a top hat. Somov stopped, unable to take his eyes off this vision. The figure was approaching, and fog was swirling around it, as if hiding it from prying eyes.
Somov froze, images of two cities appeared in his head: gray Moscow and bright Rio. But instead of joy from the dream, he felt fear creeping into his soul. As the figure approached, Somov recognized Pushkin. The poet came close to him and, without saying a word, raised his hand. At that moment, the official realized that his secrets were no longer hidden from the great poet's gaze.
Somov fell to his knees before the ghost, who began to dissolve in the fog. The city remained the same, but something in the official's heart changed forever. Pushkin disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving behind only a cold wind and the rustling of leaves.
***
Of course, this is just a figment of the imagination, and there is no basis for this story - a little fantasy for the sake of a smile! And for real facts and events, we invite you to excursions bureau "Radius", where true history comes to life!